


Saturday

by Serai



Series: High Contrast [38]
Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Desire, Hope, Longing, M/M, Nervousness, Peace Offering, Photographs, Slash, coolness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 14:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6989626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serai/pseuds/Serai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey makes a peace offering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday

.  
Saturday has been Zeke's processing day since he first started cooking and selling scat. He spends a few hours in the boathouse, usually in the afternoon, emptying the end receptacle of his rig, grinding the contents to a fine powder, and then packaging it using the big boxes of cheap Bics he picks up at the Walmart on 8th Street. When that's done and he has his weekly inventory ready, he spends some time cleaning the rig piece by piece, unplugging or unscrewing each component and washing it with care. The whole thing has to be spotless for the next batch, because Zeke doesn't hold with impurities in his product. Sure, it's a shit excuse for a drug, but it's _well-made_ shit, and that's what his customers expect. Not that they'd know the difference, but he has his pride.

He's gotten a late start today, though, and he's still finishing up lunch when the doorbell rings. Heading over to answer it, he catches a glimpse out the window and stops cold. His chest is suddenly tight, and he has to close his eyes for a minute and breathe slowly to calm down. The bell rings again, and he opens the door. 

Casey is standing there, looking nervous. "Hey," he says hesitantly. 

Zeke leans against the doorframe and looks down at him. "Hey," he returns. Casey shifts from foot to foot, averts his gaze, and then looks at him again. 

"I… Can I come in?" he asks, and Zeke feels something shaky inside at the tentative sound of Casey's voice. He smiles a little, looking cool, because in a situation like this, cool is the only thing to be. Seven weeks it's been since Casey's said more than two words to him, and though he's got no desire to be an asshole, he isn't going to fall apart, either.

"Sure," he replies. But instead of opening the door wider, he plucks his keys out of the cubbyhole and steps out. Shutting the door, he walks off towards the boathouse, turning back after a few steps. "You coming?" he asks, and then keeps walking.

He unlocks the door and goes in, flicks on the light, tosses his keys on the table. At the other end, his rig is just cooking through the last of the caffeine mix, bubbles gently flowing up through the enclosed alcohol chamber, and he moves to shut the flame down slowly. He goes through the routine motions of uncoupling the receptacle and setting it out to empty. From the eye-level shelf behind the table, he takes down his cleaning tools and the blender he uses to grind the scat. He plugs it in. He breathes slow. He doesn't shake. He's cool.

Behind him, by the door, Casey finally speaks, softly. "Zeke?"

He freezes. For a second his breath stops, time stops, everything stops except his heart, except his blood. They slam against his ribs, his bones, his skin, suddenly thundering in his ears, drowning every thought. For a second. Then he pulls air in - _he's cool_ \- and turns around. He steps closer and leans back to half-sit against the table, setting his hands on it, and waits.

Casey's standing by the door just as he thought, and Zeke sees he's got a package in one hand, big and flat. Casey looks the way he's always looked, and yet not. What is it? He looks the boy up and down, and sighs to buy time, thinking. Sneakers, jeans, t-shirt, same as always… wait, that's it. The t-shirt. It _fits_ him. Zeke can't remember ever seeing Casey in a shirt that actually fit him, that didn't make him look even smaller than he already is. It's a long-sleeved concert shirt, Cheap Trick, soft with age so he must have gotten it at a thrift store. Zeke can see the shape of Casey's chest and torso through his clothes for the first time, and Jesus, it's _sexy_. His mouth quirks a little. _Mission accomplished, Casey. You sneaky little bastard._

The sneaky bastard clears his throat a bit and blushes under Zeke's gaze. "I wanted to give these to you. I thought today..." He trails off, and then offers the package. Zeke takes it, sitting down on his tall stool, and sets it on the table. A flat brown paper bag, really big, newspaper size. He slides out a folder made of thick, glossy cardstock patterned with a crackle print. On the lower corner is embossed a drawing of an old-fashioned camera, the kind that sat on a wooden tripod and had a black cloth hanging from the back. For just a second, Zeke hesitates. No, he's not scared. He's cool. He opens the folder.

Even in the harsh light of the naked bulb over the table, Zeke can see the quality of the photo. The detail is fine, and the paper has the subtle shine of an expensive satin-grained finish. This must have cost a lot, where did Casey get the money? And then he makes himself stop thinking about any of that, and concentrates on the picture itself.

The portrait is simple and stark, Zeke's skin shining bright against the black background. He can see its texture, and the sprinkling of tiny moles on his left arm, and at the same time the flesh looks like marble, something perfect. Not for the first time, Zeke thinks, _How does he do that?_ He moves a fingertip over the image of his own hair, marveling at how Casey captured the light on it, and on his forehead, his eyes shadowed, his mouth curved and soft. Zeke never thought he could be beautiful before Casey aimed his camera at him. "Case," he whispers, and swallows. 

Casey takes hold of the folder and turns it so it's horizontal. Then he lifts the parchment sheet dividing it, and now Zeke's breath rushes out of him hard, then back in a gasp.

The steel handcuffs gleam in the light, linking their wrists together against his naked back. Zeke closes his eyes, feeling that moment again. The sharp edge of the cuff, Casey's fingertips caressing his overheated skin. His trembling breath as his dick strained against the mattress. He shivers, suddenly overtaken with a wave of desire, and all he wants to do is grab Casey, strip him fast and nail him to the worn leather couch, fuck him harder than he's ever fucked him before. He can feel him right there standing beside him, he can almost smell his skin, and when Casey's hand touches his shoulder, it's as if it were responding directly to the voice in Zeke's head that whispers _touch me_. He looks down at the photo again, and suddenly he isn't cool any more. He's the farthest away from cool he thinks he's ever been, and he slides his hand around Casey's neck to pull him close. For a long moment, the taste of Casey's mouth makes everything disappear. Nothing else is important - not his loneliness, not the past, not the weeks since the last time Casey lit him up like the sun. Just this. Just this. When their lips part, Casey sets his hand against Zeke's face, fingers stroking his jaw, and his eyes fill the world.

"Happy birthday," he whispers with a smile.


End file.
